On Thin Ice: Redone
by SageAdvice
Summary: Modern version of Sense and Sensibility...with hockey. The rating is there for a reason, so consider yourself forewarned.
1. The One with the Stick and the Puck

**General Disclaimer:** This story is based Jane Austen's _Sense and Sensibility_. Thoughts (and, I hope, grammatically-correct items) will be in italics. Subtitles set up each scene. I have given up on this story making any chronological sense. All you need to know is that it takes place at some point within the Space-Time Continuum. There will be controversial issues. There will be some smut. There will be vulgarity. There will be hockey. There will be amphibians.

**Disclaimer:** St. Cloud State University is a real school. The Husky is its real mascot. The colors really are cardinal and black. They really do have a hockey team. I am not certain about their hockey policies, but I am pretty sure their Varsity Team would not be co-ed, which is where the fiction part comes in. If you go to St. Cloud State University, and are easily offended by people using your school name for their creative purposes, skip to Chapter Two. I do not own St. Cloud State University, the stadium (with the name I couldn't find on the ambiguous hockey statistics website), the Penalty Box, Seat 38C, its mascot, its colors, its hockey team, and its policies regarding said hockey team. I do not own the _Mighty Ducks_. I do not own Norwick Lane (if such a place exists). I do not own Ewan McGregor (which has kept me awake countless nights with bawling and hormonally-induced hysterics), or _Moulin Rouge _(the rights or the film). I do not own HOTPOCKETS (and their history, described herein, is not meant to be construed as fact), IHO, Vigilante Justice, the painting with the same title as the one Dallas painted, Barbie, Bloomingdale's, the clothing stores and "Gothic" trends that inspired Manhattan's appearance, the song about "what the world needs now is love, sweet love," which inspired one of Phoenix's comparisons between Dallas and herself, the song upon which my "Must be the Money" subtitle is based, Bingo, a Senior Center, Swing Dancing, _The Godfather_ (the rights or the film), Dr. Phil, the concept of monopoly, the cliché of the tall, dark, and handsome Prince Charming, or anything else you may attempt to sue me for. All I do own are my rubber-ducky-and-bubble-bedecked pajama pants and a half-empty bottle of Diet Coke.

* * *

"**_I'm NOT shallow! I just…left my depth at home." -Phoenix Drake_**

* * *

****

_**St. Cloud State University Rink: The Hollow Victory **_

In a blur of cardinal and black, she approached the goal.

Crystals of ice erupted in her wake.

Left.

Right.

Swivel.

A perfectly-choreographed dance.

Though her feet were occupied, her attention never strayed from the goalie.

And yet, she KNEW.

The puck would come toward her from the right.

Right about…

**WHAM! **

Effortlessly, she sent it sailing into the net.

The goalie collapsed to his knees.

Her teammates whisked her heavenward.

Jubilant, they deposited her upon their shoulders.

Mission accomplished.

At twenty-one, she was Captain of the Huskies Varsity Hockey Team.

She was also the only female in the history of St. Cloud State University to play at the Varsity level.

Now, in accordance with her decade-long tradition, she had scored the winning goal.

Naturally, she was overjoyed by the prospect of YET ANOTHER fifteen minutes of fame.

There was nothing she craved more than the thrill of victory.

At least, that's what she wanted to believe.

The bitter truth was: she needed someone to "get" her.

She needed someone to encourage her whenever her previous records remained unbroken.

She needed someone to snuggle with.

Most importantly,_ s_he needed someone to worship the ice she skated upon.

_The universe owes me a MASSIVE favor, after all._

_Any superficiality on my part is warranted!_

_And, in about fifteen seconds, Dear Reader, you will understand EXACTLY why I feel this way. _

The instant she left the ice, **HE** would be ready to pounce.

* * *

_**St. Cloud State University Rink Penalty Box: Orchestra, Meet my Skate**_

Predictably, as she was unlacing her skates, **HE **plopped down on the bench beside her.

Jerome Kush.

He was breathtaking.

He knew it.

He had absolutely no qualms about tooting his own horn.

In fact, he didn't just have one horn.

He had an entire orchestra.

He attached himself to every female unfortunate enough to enter his line of vision.

Well, every female who wasn't her.

It wasn't that he hadn't made a valiant effort to win her affections.

He had.

His determination to woo her began when they were three.

_Maybe his approach is the problem._

"Drake," he cooed.

Lecherously, he waggled his eyebrows.

"This time, I'm gonna make you an offer you CAN'T refuse."

_Well, there's a come-on I haven't heard since practice this afternoon._

_Does he honestly believe stealing pick-up lines from the Godfather will get him laid?_

"What offer am I expected to not refuse THIS time, Jerome," she indignantly spat.

He stroked her upper thigh.

"I'll show you my stick, if you show me your puck."

_Before you unveil your stick, just let me get my magnifying glass._

_THANK GOD you're such a dick!_

_Otherwise, I might actually feel guilty about busting your balls._

"Well," she huskily purred, "you sure know how to flatter a girl."

Puckering her lips, she brought her face mere centimeters from his.

Immediately, he inched his mouth closer… closer…ever closer.

She wielded her skate.

Smiling serenely, she bashed him, shoe-side-up, in the groin.

He cascaded off the bench, landing at her feet.

Tears cascaded down his cheeks.

He whimpered.

He moaned.

He gritted every cuss word imaginable.

_It's a pity you're as deluded as you are handsome, Jerome Kush._

_As if I would EVER be interested in someone who ONLY wanted me for my PUCK!_

Head held high, she stepped over his prostrate form.

Triumphantly, she hauled ass to Seat 38C, where her sister was waiting.

* * *

_**St. Cloud State University Rink Seat 38C: The Justice of a Civilized Heathen**_

_Dallas Drake, you are panicking without just cause._

_Phoenix is NOT tormenting Jerome Kush._

_They've known each other since pre-school._

_Obviously, they have eighteen years worth of memories to bond over, and…_

_OH MY GOD!_

_What if she's FINALLY done it?_

_What if she's figured out a way to separate Jerome's ego from his body, and she's beaten him to death with it?_

_If she shows up wearing his testicles for earrings, Mother will NEVER forgive me._

Twenty-three-year-old Dallas shook her cascade of ginger curls in resignation.

_Oh, Phoenix._

_Why can't you give peace a chance?_

_Just ONCE!_

_If only for the sake of the SCSU Rink Janitorial Staff!_

_I highly doubt that they are compensated for being forced to clean around Jerome Kush EVERY time he tries to converse with you._

"Phoenix, it's appalling! It's ABSOLUTELY appalling! To be perfectly honest, it's BEYOND appalling that you always feel the need to…"

"Embrace Vigilante Justice," Phoenix panted, eyes twinkling merrily.

_YES!_

_HER EARS ARE DEVOID OF TESTICLES!_

Dallas retorted, as she always did, with exasperated grunting.

"Look Dal," Phoenix's teasing tone instantly grew serious, "I realize that Jerome has a reputation as a Manly-Man to protect, so I solemnly swear to you, on my hockey stick, that I will only beat his Punk-Ass down when none of his adoring fans are watching."

Dallas stifled a gale of giggles behind her hand, gulping, "At least you've progressed from Beyond Appalling to Civilized Heathen."

With a saucy wink, Phoenix hefted her gym bag over her shoulder.

Gallantly, she hooked her free arm through Dallas's.

They headed home, leaving Jerome Kush in a quivering, weeping heap.

* * *

_**The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: Unlike Dallas**_

As they strolled toward their residence on Norwick Lane, passerby halted in their tracks to gawk at them.

Phoenix was known far and wide for her heroics on the ice.

Single-handedly, she had put St. Cloud State University in the record books…numerous times.

Dallas, on the other hand, was known far and wide for her accomplishments in the galleries.

Dallas was an internationally-acclaimed artist.

Her first painting (_Prelude to a Tempestuous Evening_) had been sold, when she was eleven-and-a-half, to a foreign dignitary, for $12 million.

The ENTIRE $12 million had been spent on renovating Drake's Diner; this spontaneous decision would eventually come back to bite the lot of them in the ass.

Phoenix would have traded her celebrity status in a heartbeat for an ounce of Dallas's beauty.

Unlike Phoenix, whose broad shoulders and muscular legs could only be wedged into jerseys and gym shorts, Dallas's curvaceous, yet petite, figure made the T-shirts, patched overalls, and do-rags, she always wore seem worthy of being worn by royalty.

Unlike Phoenix, whose hair had the same color and luster as dirt, and fell in hideous, jagged chunks just above her chin, Dallas's ginger curls shimmered in every type of lighting.

Unlike Phoenix, whose eyes were the color of maple syrup, Dallas's eyes were golden, piercing, like those of a lion.

Unlike Phoenix, whose rippling biceps and intimidating quads were the envy of EVERY athlete at St. Cloud State University, Dallas's features were of the Barbie-esque variety that every woman secretly yearns for.

Unlike Phoenix, whose typical style of movement was the lumbering of a drunken elephant, Dallas floated, as if hovering on a cloud.

What they did have in common, to their constant sorrow, was the death of their father, Harold Drake.

* * *

_**The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: The Crumbling of a Marriage **_

In his lifetime of seventy-four years, Harold Drake had been married twice.

His first wife was the heiress to the Harris HOTPOCKET Empire.

Marshall Harris had invented, patented, and owned, the first International HOTPOCKET Outlet (or IHO) in the world.

What began as a humble stand, on the corner of Thistle and Mulberry St., evolved into a single factory in downtown Sacramento.

Finally, as HOTPOCKETS became one of the world's most popular pastries, the single factory became hundreds of factories.

It was suspected, though this universal opinion was never voiced to Harold Drake, that Marshall Harris's daughter, Matilda, only married Mr. Drake to benefit the Harris HOTPOCKET Empire.

She encouraged Harold to sell his business to her father.

Harold Drake refused to part with the diner, which had been his entire life for twenty years.

Thus, the owner of Drake's Diner and the future-owner of IHO divorced, with as little media attention as possible.

* * *

_**The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: To Lack Nobility and to Alter the Temperature**_

From his marriage to Matilda Harris, Harold Drake was blessed with a son.

With his disarming smile, wavy, honey-blond hair, and soulful, hazel eyes, which screamed, "I'm an angel," it was impossible not to trust Justin Drake.

At thirty-five, Justin was carrying on the Harris Tradition of Monopoly.

Following his grandfather's death, Justin had become the Head of IHO.

In his spare time, he plotted to franchise Drake's Diner, as soon as his father bequeathed it to him.

Under Justin's leadership, IHO seduced the smaller, newer pastry companies, with promises of profits beyond their wildest dreams, prior to devouring them.

To Justin's credit, he INTENDED to keep every promise he made.

Unfortunately, the vendettas of his wife never failed to lure him from the path of Ethical Business Practices.

Ferris Drake, thirty-three, was a vacuum of misery.

Inevitably, she sucked joy out of social gathering.

When Ferris entered a room, the temperature plummeted to sixty-seven degrees below zero.

Her platinum-blonde hair was religiously permed.

Her nails were so long, they had begun to curl at the ends, and so lethal, they had been known to draw blood.

Her eyes were steel-gray.

Her lips were thin and a perpetually twisted into a sadistic sneer.

Bits of food were incessantly stuck between her teeth.

Her ribs protruded.

Her knees were knobby.

Her breasts and her ass were practically non-existent, which was a constant source of comfort for Phoenix.

Being as cursed as she was in the Looks Department, it was suspected that Ferris Drake was dynamite in bed.

Understandably, rumors of Ferris's alleged sexual prowess failed to comfort Phoenix in the aftermath of her father's death.

When Harold Drake neglected to invest the $12 million, their already-limited finances steadily declined.

What sparse resources Harold had were willed to Harper.

The bubbly, jabbering, bouncy four-year-old had stolen his grandfather's heart.

Harper had insisted on toddling after Harold Drake wherever he went.

Harold's adoration for Harper completely blinded him to the needs of his wife and daughters.

Phoenix would spend the rest of her life wondering why her father had been more concerned about Harper than he had been about his daughters.

* * *

_**The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: Putting the Fun in Dysfunction **_

At sixty, Mrs. Drake had retired from teaching.

Harold had recently been diagnosed with lung cancer.

Following countless hospital bills, and a two-year-long war to find someone qualified enough to manage Drake's Diner in her husband's absence (she wasn't about to part with the business Harold had built with his own two hands, until she was forced to by law), Mrs. Drake applied for Food Stamps.

On the evening of his funeral, Justin, Ferris, Harper, and all of their possessions, materialized on Mrs. Drake's front porch.

Their intrusion, Justin insisted, was a gesture of sympathy.

Mrs. Drake was powerless to kick their asses to the curb.

She was also powerless to obtain restraining orders against them.

For better or worse, typically for worse, Justin was Harold's son, and she had to respect that reality.

Furthermore, the future of Drake's Diner depended upon Justin's whims.

There was a chance, supposing hell froze over, that Justin wouldn't transform Drake's Diner into a chain.

Mrs. Drake would be damned if she allowed her abhorrence of Justin to negatively affect the business that her husband had loved.

All she could do was turn to her daughters for support.

And, support her they did, in their own ways.

* * *

_**The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: All You Need is an Oncoming Bus**_

Dallas was the Doctor Phil of the bunch, particularly where their mother was concerned.

It was she who convinced Mrs. Drake to refrain from clawing out Ferris's eyes, which Mrs. Drake threatened to do…whenever Dallas move, spoke, or breathed.

Dallas tackled this miraculous feat by constantly blathering that 'all you need is love.'

Phoenix wished she would borrow wisdom from someone who wasn't Ewan McGregor, preferably someone who advocated violence.

_Not that I should expect anything else from someone who watches Moulin Rouge eighty-seven times EVERY week._

When times called for a positive, tree-hugging perspective, discussions with thirteen-year-old Manhattan were required.

Manhattan was famous for her neon-pink-and-black-striped socks, with triple sixes tattooed across the toe and heel.

She never left home without her combat boots.

Her miniskirts would have been more effective for blowing her nose than for covering her crotch.

Her tank-top collection ranged from "Punk Princess" to "Missing your balls? They're in this jar."

She was always turning heads, and dropping jaws, with her untamable mane of lime-green hair.

Nevertheless, Manhattan was an eerily-staunch advocate of frolicking-in-the-meadows-with-the-bunnies.

Phoenix blamed Manhattan's sunny disposition on the fact that her nose was always shoved into some G-rated, romance novel.

Excessive reading had brainwashed her.

She truly believed that hearts are never broken.

She truly believed that money never disappears.

She truly believed that people work because they love their jobs, not because they are forced to do so, just to make rent.

She truly believed that there is no mistake that can't be corrected and forgiven.

It was Manhattan's philosophy of forgiveness that convinced Phoenix NOT to throw Ferris into the path of an oncoming bus.

_As long as Manhattan can dress like a tramp, while simultaneously maintaining her innocence, who am I to piss on her Goodwill toward Everyone parade?_

It wasn't that Phoenix disliked Ferris.

She LOATHED her, with the flaming passion of an incalculable amount of suns.

Granted, she would NEVER turn her murderous thoughts into murderous actions.

Phoenix was a firm believer in giving EVERYONE (even the most vile, disgusting, revolting, loathsome, abhorrent CRETINS imaginable) the benefit of the doubt.

Once the benefit of the doubt had been abused; however, then, and ONLY then, would she feel confident in her decision to despise the aforementioned cretin for all eternity.

Eventually, her benefit-of-the-doubt philosophy would be decimated by the dogmatic stoicism of a decidedly-vapid young man.

For now, Phoenix was convinced that holding eternal grudges could ALWAYS be justified.

As far as Phoenix was concerned, she was the shade of gray between Dallas and Manhattan.

Like Manhattan, she was a romantic; just…not a HOPELESS one.

Manhattan was convinced that EVERY male who said so much as a "hello" to her was destined to be the man of her dreams.

Like Dallas, she was practical.

Occasionally, Dallas's practicality was overshadowed by her naivety.

Phoenix agreed with Dallas that what the world needed was love, sweet love.

However, unlike Dallas, Phoenix knew that love was not ALWAYS the answer.

After all, she was not about to grope a cactus.

And, she certainly wouldn't deny her mother the euphoria of mauling Ferris Drake!

* * *

_**The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: Must be the Money **_

Without consulting Ferris, Justin decided that it was his duty to pay rent for the sections of the house that he and his family would be usurping.

They had demanded ownership of the Master Bedroom, Master Bathroom, and any other room in the house that happened to please them, for as long as they decided to stay.

Mrs. Drake meekly suggested a figure.

Justin gallantly vowed to pay five times more.

Upon learning of their arrangement, Ferris murderously reprimanded him that family members, even family members who are only PARTIALLY-related to each other, don't force other family members to pay rent.

After all, Ferris had yowled, their son would never forgive them for frittering away money that could be better spent spoiling him.

Justin had then informed his wife that he would pay twice what Mrs. Drake had suggested.

Ferris imperiously roared that his sisters and their mother would take advantage of them.

Eventually, only a penny would remain in their bank account, if they weren't careful.

Justin panicked, declaring that they would pay $50 a year for rent.

Ferris countered that $50 a year would be better invested in Harper's College Fund.

Justin wholeheartedly agreed.

With his inheritance from his mother, Justin Drake was as far from impoverished as it is possible to be.

If Ferris hadn't wheedled him into taking the reins of IHO, Justin Drake wouldn't have worked a day in his life.

Harper could spend the rest of his days, doing absolutely nothing, in the lap of luxury.

Regardless, Justin was determined that Harper would graduate from college.

College, he believed, offers a man everything he needs to be successful in life: a tolerance for alcohol…and a foolproof method of impressing women.

"Females are much more likely to drop their pants for a man with a degree, Son," he'd announce, emphasizing his point with a _Girls Gone Wild: The College Edition_ Marathon.

Ferris cackled inwardly.

_THOSE TREACHEROUS SNAKES WILL NOT STEAL LUXERIES FROM MY SON! _

She hissed that, as the FIRST child from a RESPECTABLE marriage, Justin was entitled to EVERYTHING.

Justin felt that truer words had never been spoken.

He would have hurled their asses into the street, without a second thought, if he hadn't sworn, while Harold was on his deathbed, to look after them.

Ferris menacingly thundered that taking care of them, certainly, had NOTHING to do with money.

They were Welfare Recipients!

Let the government worry about them!

He could lend a hand by taking out the trash.

He could change the light bulbs.

He could clean the garage.

He could repair the air-conditioner.

THEY WOULD BE APPRECIATIVE, DAMNIT!

* * *

**_The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: He's a Bit too Produce-Like to be a Prince_**

Thus, they were all trapped in a house the size of a sardine can.

Ferris raged at Justin to do no favors for his sisters and their mother.

Manhattan devoured her romance novels.

Phoenix had her ass handed to her by Advanced Chemistry.

Mrs. Drake clamored to find a place of their own (preferably in an entirely different galaxy than Justin and Ferris).

Dallas, meanwhile, was rapidly falling in love.

The culprit who had stolen Dallas's heart was Garrett Frankford, the lawyer who handled Mr. Drake's will.

Garrett had been invited to ONE dinner, as a thank-you for his services.

But, following a single glance at Dallas, he proved impossible to get rid of.

He was flabby.

He was tomato-faced.

He was bespectacled.

He was short.

He was cursed with a toupee.

He had a horrendous taste in ties.

He tended to spit when he talked.

He was generous to everyone he knew well.

He was courteous to strangers.

He never failed to offer Dallas his coat.

He asked for Dallas's opinion about anything and everything.

He treated Dallas like a queen.

Nevertheless, Garrett Frankford's affection for Dallas repulsed Phoenix.

_He's not tall!_

_He's not dark!_

_He's about as handsome as sewage! _

_I'M MORE OF A PRINCE CHARMING THAN HE IS!_

_Plus, he hasn't made any effort to even PRETEND to understand art!_

* * *

_**The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: To Silence an Asparagus**_

On the fourth month of her relationship with Garrett Frankford, Phoenix decided that the time had come to educate Dallas on the twisted-inner-workings-of-the-male-mind.

She'd been in many a locker room.

As such, twisted males were her specialty.

"Garrett couldn't tell an abstract painting from an asparagus," was Phoenix's blunt observation.

"Garrett may not have a Doctorate in Art, but he appreciates MY work! When was the last time you took an interest in someone else's hobbies, Phoenix," was Dallas's harsh retort.

"Manhattan reads those borderline-trashy novels. You do that thing, with those brushes, that makes pictures appear on your paper somehow," was Phoenix's awkward defense.

"What's the plot of Manhattan's current 'borderline-trashy novel'? What's the name of my most recent painting? And, don't bother giving me those wounded-puppy eyes, Phoenix. The point is… I know every team you've ever been on! I know the name of every teammate you've ever had! I've been to all of your games! I cheered you on at every Awards Ceremony you've ever participated in! You have always been first for me! Why is it so impossible for you to, just this ONCE, remove your head from your ass long enough to give a damn about someone VERY important to me?"

"There has to be a simpler way of admitting that you love someone."

Silence descended.

"I love him," Dallas squeaked, petrified.

"Sucks to be you," Phoenix gently quipped.

"But…I…NO! I can't love HIM," Dallas melodramatically shrilled, "He can't tell the difference between an abstract painting and a fucking asparagus."

"Maybe love isn't about having absolutely everything in common," Phoenix dreamily philosophized, "Maybe loving someone with different interests will actually bring you closer. You can share your passions with him, and he can share his passions with you, and you will both, consequently, arrive at this plateau of intimacy that neither of you knew existed."

Dallas, who had been absentmindedly slathering cream cheese on a bagel, throughout this entire exchange, obliviously hurled the bagel against the wall.

"You don't have to tiptoe on eggshells with me, Phoenix," she declared, ever ignorant of the bagel's fate, "If I wanted assurances that true love conquers all, I'd be having this conversation with Manhattan. I want to know what YOU think, not what you think I want to hear."

"I don't understand why you are lusting after Garrett Frankford. I don't think I will EVER understand why you are lusting after Garrett Frankford. However, if you were into someone who was exactly like you…that would be a little bit too much like masturbation. Basically, your happiness is more important to me than whether or not you get it on with an art expert," patiently, Phoenix separated the bagel from the wall.

"Thanks, Kiddo," Dallas affectionately tousled her hair, "Except for, well, the part about masturbation."

"Dal, you're first for me, too."

* * *

_**The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: Swing Dancing Your Way to Developing Some Balls**_

_I realize that I should be MUCH more supportive of Dallas's taste in men, but…_

_GARRETT FRANKFORD?_

_Gag me with a pitchfork!_

_Garrett Frankford is the reason tomatoes and walking-fashion-disasters shouldn't reproduce!_

_Unfortunately, Garrett Frankford is also the epitome of a Mama's Boy._

At thirty-seven, he still lived with his mother.

He ran errands for her.

He accompanied her to Bingo and Swing Dance Lessons at the Senior Center.

He endured her pinching his cheeks and cleaning his face with her spit.

Patiently, he accepted her chastisement that he wasn't sitting straight enough.

He never argued when she sent him to bed at nine o'clock, sans dessert.

His alliance with 'THAT PAINT-SPLATTERED HUSSY' had cost him desert for four months.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Hey Loyal Reviewers and Lurkers, this is the FINAL posting for OTI, which basically means thateverything I held back in the first posting, it's ALL here. It's crude and it's long-winded and it's random and it's bitter and it's an excuse to vent about lifeand it's me on paper. You have been warned! 

**Non-damsel: **For reminding me of how much I adore these characters, I kind of love you. More or Less, RANNY, Kadrien, Fight Fair, Sawnon, Shanyid COMMUNICATION, Sawyer's tent, Kate's guns, Jack's q-tip-shaped head, Charlie's addiction, Claire's peanut butter, and Hurley's dudes!


	2. The One with the Bed and the Carrot

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Budweiser, and am in no way affiliated with their Advertising Team, so don't expect polar bears, or mauling by polar bears, in any of their future commercials. I do not own the White House, or the president. If I owned the president, I would get him a dictionary, a speech therapist, and a one-way ticket to a certain Craphole Island, where he would be foisted upon Jack, Kate, Locke, the French Chick, Charlie, Claire, and Turniphead (who is guilty by association to the womb from which he came). I do not own _Playboy _(the mansion, the bunny,or the magazine). Drake's Diner is fictional, as far as I know. If I'm wrong, I do not own Drake's Diner. I do not own carrot sticks, floral-patterned sofas, Motel 6 (even though my dad composed their theme song), the Buccaneers (if such a team exists), or Barton Park (yet another vision of our beloved Victorian Man-Hater). I do not own_ Pretty Woman _(the rights or the film), or, unfortunately, since he has disturbingly-gorgeous hair (at least he did until _Shall We Dance_), Richard Gere. I do not own the lottery, cabins, the stereotypical characteristics of cabins, skilifts, the stereotypical characteristics of the elderly, the phrase "humble abode," cacti, dog food, dip, escape routes, the CIA, dumpsters, Shakespearian phrases, or anything you may endeavor to sue me for. I DO own The Imaginary University of Denver, its admission policies, and my retainer.

**Previously on _On Thin Ice_:** We are introduced to Phoenix Drake, the only female member, and the Captain, of the St. Cloud State University Varsity Hockey Team. Phoenix obliterates Jerome Kush's manhood. Phoenix's father (who is no longer among the breathing) had a son from a previous marriage, who has a wife and a child of his own. Phoenix has two sisters (Dallas and Manhattan). Justin Drake loves breaking promises. Ferris Drake loves pinching pennies, until they disintegrate. Mrs. Drake loves to hate Justin and Ferris. Manhattan loves romance novels. Garrett Frankford loves Dallas. Garrett Frankford's mother LOVES Garrett! Phoenix is more concerned about Garrett Frankford's lack of Artistic Expertise than she is about his similarity to a tomato.

* * *

"**_If you're determined to imprison someone in a hotel, make sure it's a ridiculously-expensive one." –Dallas Drake_**

* * *

_**Drake's Diner: The Surprises That Come From Falling **_

Very few things in life came naturally to Phoenix Drake.

In fact, hockey was the only thing she could have done in her sleep, with both hands and both feet tied behind her back.

Only her father understood that hockey made her feel _alive_.

While others tolerated her love of the game, her father loved her all the more because of it.

For her eighth birthday, Harold made Phoenix her own ice skating rink.

It was in those first moments on the ice that she would learn one of the most valuable lessons a person can be taught.

With trembling fingers, she laced up her skates.

Legs wobbling, she held out her hand to her father.

Hand clasped firmly in his, she allowed him to escort her onto the makeshift rink.

She took a single tentative step.

And then another.

Confidence sufficiently boosted, she released his hand.

Immediately, she landed on her ass.

Unshed tears shimmering in her eyes, she glared up at him.

Petulantly, she pouted, "You promised me I would be great."

Rather than laugh at his overwhelmed daughter, Harold Drake affectionately chucked her under the chin.

"You WILL be great, my Phoenix, but greatness takes time. With time, and practice, I promise you, you will revolutionize the game of hockey."

Phoenix's eyes bulged in wonder.

"But, I…I don't want to revorution anything. I just don't want to fall down."

He helped her to her feet, placing a tender kiss to her forehead.

"Sometimes, Sweetheart, the best things in life come from falling down."

* * *

_**The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: A Revolutionary Swashbuckler**_

It would take many years, and a decidedly-stoic young man, for Phoenix to fully absorb the wisdom of those words.

She had never forgotten the grave tone of his voice.

The way his eyes had clouded over, how his brow had furrowed, would forever be emblazoned in her memory.

That was the most resolute he had ever been.

Well, that, and whenever he insisted that she WOULD play hockey for The Imaginary University of Denver Buccaneers.

"You and that team are destined to be a perfect match, my Phoenix," he would triumphantly declare.

"After all, where better for a woman to revolutionize the game of hockey, than on a team called the Buccaneers? You will swashbuckle your way onto the scoreboard…and into the hearts of your adoring fans!"

She simply nodded, smiled, and squeezed his hand.

She was incapable of arguing with such unwavering faith in her potential abilities.

And, as he was so fond of reminding her, he was NEVER wrong.

* * *

_**The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: Bleeding Hearts and Busted Groins**_

During her Junior Year of high school, she applied to The Imaginary University of Denver.

Racing to the mailbox, to see who could find her acceptance letter first, became a daily tradition.

The day the letter came, her father won the race.

With tears in his eyes, he tore into the envelope.

Devastated, he read aloud these crushing words:

"_Phoenix Drake, we regret to inform you that without one of our Athletic Scouts expressing an interest in you specifically, we are unable to accept you into our Sports Program. Thank you for applying."_

During her Senior Year of high school, an Athletic Scout from The Imaginary University of Denver expressed an interest in her specifically.

She was unable to meet with him; however, as she had caught the flu from Jerome Kush.

The resulting pummeling of Jerome Kush's groin miraculously soothed her immeasurable rage.

Unfortunately, she was powerless to mend her father's broken heart.

Harold Drake spent weeks on the phone, pleading with said Athletic Scout to meet with Phoenix for five minutes.

The Athletic Scout adamantly refused to reschedule the appointment.

For months, Phoenix simply COULDN'T look into her father's eyes.

She feared that if she dared to meet his gaze, her failures would be reflected within their hazel depths.

* * *

_**The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: Of Farewells and Falling**_

"What if I can't do this," Phoenix had sobbed uncontrollably, during her final conversation with her father.

Harold Drake weakly held his daughter to his chest.

"What if I'm not talented enough?"

She hadn't meant to unburden all of her pent up anxieties upon him, not when he needed her to be strong, for all of them, not when her mother wasn't eating and her sisters weren't sleeping and their debts were skyrocketing.

"What if I was never meant to play hockey? What if the day comes when I fall, and I just…don't get back up again?"

He murmured soothingly against her hair, "Phoenix, I raised a daughter who can accomplish anything she sets her mind to. I raised a daughter who will get into The Imaginary University of Denver, and when she does, she'll be skating circles around her teammates. But, most importantly, I raised a daughter who is willing to seek help when she needs it. You have a habit of pushing away, and judging people before you really get to know them, which is understandable, since you do take after your mother's side of the family, a little. Promise me that you won't form opinions of others based on first impressions alone, and always remember that I'm proud of you."

* * *

_**The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: Realization of Dreams...for the Purpose of Plot Advancement **_

A month after her father's death, Phoenix forced herself to apply to The Imaginary University of Denver.

_Moment of truth, Drake!_

_If you don't do this now, it isn't going to happen._

_Everything your father wanted for you, everything you wanted for yourself, is riding on this._

_You may have fallen before, but it's NEVER too late to get back up!_

It wasn't until a spectacular morning in September (the sky was a dazzling blue, with not a cloud to be seen; the birds were harmonizing beneath her window; the grass was lush and immaculately-mowed; a gentle breeze teasingly fluttered her curtains) that she finally received the answer she had spent her ENTIRE life wishing for.

After years of falling down, Phoenix Drake was about to embark upon one of the greatest adventures of her life.

* * *

_**Phoenix's Bedroom: Winning a Different Kind of Lottery**_

On the Spectacular September Morning in question, Dallas pranced into Phoenix's room.

Whistling a jaunty tune, she wildly waved an envelope beneath Phoenix's nose.

"Let me guess," Phoenix snappishly grunted, "your irrational perkiness is a result of this month's issue of _Playboy _coming early."

Dallas flippantly brushed this off with a sassy, "If by 'this month's issue of _Playboy_' you mean your letter from The Imaginary University of Denver, then, yes, that is the cause of my 'irrational perkiness.'"

Observing Phoenix's slack jaw and glazed eyes, Dallas anxiously placed a hand against her sister's wrist, to check for a pulse.

Satisfied that Phoenix's heart hadn't stopped, Dallas mauled the envelope.

Scanning its contents, she piercingly shrieked, "THIS IS FROM COACH MARKSON! HE SAW YOU WIN THAT LAST CHAMPIONSHIP FOR THE HUSKIES, AND HE WANTS TO MEET WITH YOU ABOUT A FULL-RIDE SCHOLARSHIP AND A STARTING POSITION ON THE TEAM, AND YOUR FAMILY'S WELCOME TO COME WITH YOU, AND OH MY GOD! YOU DID IT, KIDDO!"

Dallas catapulted herself at Phoenix, nearly strangling her with the force of the embrace.

Instantly regaining her sensibility, Dallas somberly proclaimed, "Dad always knew you would make it."

Dallas's hysteria had, understandably, alerted the entire household to the fact that a life-altering event was taking place in Phoenix's bedroom.

Within about three minutes, they had all swarmed into the already-cramped space, demanding to know if she'd won the lottery.

The sadistic glint in Ferris's eyes betrayed her delusions that if Phoenix had indeed won, she, Justin, and Harper would assume the responsibility of receiving the cash prize.

As Phoenix had yet to reactivate her powers of speech, it fell upon Dallas's shoulders to announce that Phoenix was millimeters away from becoming a student at The Imaginary University of Denver.

And, consequently, they would be traveling to The Imaginary University of Denver, as soon as possible, to meet with Coach Markson about a scholarship and a potential position on the team.

Mrs. Drake fainted against Manhattan, who looked as if she might swoon herself (over the romanticism of Phoenix achieving her dream), at any second.

Harper blithely jabbered, "Phoenix go bye-bye."

Justin raced forward to offer Phoenix a hearty slap on the back.

Ferris regally propped herself against the door, glaring daggers at her husband for daring to congratulate _THAT PHOENIX VERMIN_.

Those daggers increased tenfold, as he dutifully piped up that once everything with Phoenix was settled, he would be glad to help them move (since he was certain that Mrs. Drake had no intention of being separated from any of her children), by calling an inexpensive moving company for them.

He couldn't possibly cover the cost of the moving bill, but the phone call was the least he could do.

* * *

_**Road Trip to The Imaginary University of Denver: Garrett is no Gere**_

Two weeks after receiving the letter from Coach Markson, the day of the Road Trip to Denver had arrived.

It was without any remorse, whatsoever, that Mrs. Drake, and her daughters, bid Justin and Ferris a chilly farewell.

Of course, Harper, and their tiny, yet beloved, residence on Norwick Lane, would be dreadfully missed.

Crammed into the backseat, beneath a mountain of luggage, Phoenix and Dallas decided to while away the seemingly-endless amount of miles between themselves and Denver with a discussion of their memories of life on Norwick Lane.

"Remember the first time we met Justin," Dallas hesitantly questioned.

"And, he…he said he wanted to trade us in for 'more expensive' sisters," Phoenix guffawed merrily.

"Remember the first time we met Ferris," Dallas gasped, between uncharacteristic bursts of mirth.

"And, she kept demanding that we put away her coat and bring her drinks and serve her lunch, and where the hell were Justin's damn sisters, and didn't they have enough civility to ENTERTAIN their guest?"

Tears were streaming down Phoenix's cheeks.

Regardless, she still managed to splutter, "And remember what Garrett Frankford told you when you informed him that you were leaving Norwick Lane?"

All the color drained from Dallas's face.

Her golden eyes narrowed to slits.

"THAT'S NOT FAIR! I didn't tell you because…because…," she gritted murderously.

"Because you knew I would throttle him senseless with my hockey stick when I found out," Phoenix venomously supplied.

"NO," Dallas snarled defiantly.

"I didn't tell you because…you're already so determined to believe that he isn't right for me."

She crumpled forlornly against the seat.

"And, I love him, so I want you to love him, too. But, what he said would have made throttling him senseless with your hockey stick incredibly tempting."

Silently, Phoenix reached for Dallas's hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze.

Dallas brokenly stammered, "I told him on Friday night, after dinner, when he was about to leave. I walked him to the front porch, and before he even had a chance to thank me for inviting him over, I just blurted out that I was going to Denver for you, and I wasn't sure when, or even if, I would be returning. He just whimpered that I wasn't obligated to go. In fact, if I stayed here, with him, he would be willing to…to…OH, KIDDO! IT'S JUST SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO DREADFUL! HE TOLD ME THAT IF I STAYED WITH HIM...HE'D BE WILLING TO RENT A MOTEL ROOM FOR ME TO LIVE IN!"

Dallas melodramatically blew her nose all over Phoenix's sleeve, wailing, "IT'S LIKE…DALLAS, YOU'RE NOT DECENT ENOUGH TO BE MY WIFE, BUT YOU'RE PERFECTLY WORTHY OF BEING HELD CAPTIVE IN A BLOODY MOTEL 6!"

Manhattan swooned dreamily from the front seat.

"Dal! That's BEYOND romantic! Remember what happened in _Pretty Woman_ when Richard Gere told Julia Roberts that he would pay for her apartment, if she just stayed with him? She turned him down for all those brilliant, feminist reasons. But, in the end, he realized that he couldn't survive without her, so he brought a rose to her on the fire escape."

Dallas blew her nose even more fervently, yowling, "BUT…GARRETT FRANKFORD IS NOT RICHARD GERE," before lapsing into an indignant and contemplative silence, for the remainder of the journey.

* * *

_**University-Provided Cabin: Of Bears and Beer **_

Phoenix was utterly EXHAUSTED.

_I might have worn myself out with the bitchtacular ranting about EVERY Motel 6 we passed._

_But, what sort of GENTLEMAN believes a MOTEL ROOM is a proper substitute for a PROPOSAL? _

_Dallas, why the fuck are you settling for Garrett Frankford?_

_You deserve a man who would build you a castle in the sky._

Rather than exploring with her mother and sisters, Phoenix CLOMPED toward the back of the dwelling, searching for the bedroom with the most scenic view.

It was a rustic, should-have-been-on-a-postcard cabin, located just fifteen minutes away from The Imaginary University of Denver Campus, in Barton Park.

The walls were wood paneling.

The floors were wood paneling.

From its position before the fireplace, a bearskin rug (with the head still attached) leered up at them.

Deer, moose, and elk heads were mounted above the mantle, scrutinizing their every move through glassy eyes.

The dim lighting was sensual enough to inspire Manhattan to suggest roasting marshmallows they didn't have, over a fire they didn't know how to construct.

As if the discovery of the animal heads wasn't unsettling enough, Mrs. Drake, Dallas, and Manhattan were utterly flummoxed by the skilift positioned three feet from their backyard.

"Great," Manhattan shrilled theatrically, "first the deer head condemns me with its unblinking eyes, and now…A SKILIFT? You know what this means don't you?"

Petrified, Dallas and Mrs. Drake could only wring their hands.

Manhattan lowered her voice to an ominous whisper.

"It means that we'll be INVADED by high school students on Senior Trips."

Dallas frantically gulped.

Mrs. Drake grinned wryly, inclining her head to the left of the skilift Manhattan predicted would torment them to no end.

"Things COULD be worse. Imagine how the poor simpleton, the one being paid to put a shirt on a polar bear, feels right now."

Dallas and Manhattan gawked, thoroughly aghast, as the polar bear lunged at the simpleton in question, knocking down the horrified Budweiser Camera Crew, in the process, like so many bowling pins.

"Budweiser's Advertising Campaign peaked with frogs," Manhattan philosophized dreamily.

"Polar bears are too cuddly to sell beer. Although, if the footage of this guy getting his ass mauled is included in the commercial, I can basically guarantee that every guy I know will turn to alcoholism after watching it."

* * *

_**Phoenix's Bedroom: So, You've Conquered My Bed, But You WON'T Conquer My Heart**_

Phoenix, meanwhile, had stumbled upon a bedroom that suited her.

The wood-paneled floor and wood-paneled walls were inescapable it seemed.

At least the blue-and-white-checkered pattern on the curtains and bedspread reduced the "I'm-a-Mighty-Woodsman-who-Gets-Off-on-Slaughtering-Fuzzy-Things" vibe considerably.

Most importantly, the view was divine.

Although, she supposed any view was indescribably preferable to the view of a polar bear's insides, which was what that poor bastard from Budweiser, who was currently being bitten in half, was experiencing.

The polar bear's feeding frenzy aside, what disturbed her about the room was the enigmatic lump in her bed.

Peevishly, she prodded at the mysterious mass.

Gradually, the mass emerged from beneath her blankets, revealing the most nondescript male she had ever beheld.

His wood-paneling-brown hair was straight, immaculately-cut, and not a single strand was out of place.

His face was chiseled, but not enough to be described as "rugged."

His lips were full, but not enough to be described as "pouting."

His eyes were positioned in such a way that they were perfectly symmetrical on both sides of his nose.

His eyebrows were bushy, but not enough that they consumed his entire forehead.

He had no enormous ears, freckles, or unfortunately-protruding teeth.

His sweatshirt bore the Buccaneers' logo.

His jeans were obviously not designer, but not ratty enough to have been salvaged from a dumpster, either.

His shoes, which she grudgingly gave him a few Brownie Points for, as he had displayed the common courtesy of removing them, before deciding to make himself comfortable in A BED THAT WASN'T HIS, were all-black, completely-devoid-of-distinctive-markings, tennis shoes.

He adjusted his average-sized glasses on the bridge of his average-sized nose.

His wood-paneling-brown eyes bore expressionlessly into hers.

Mechanically, he remarked, "I'm terribly sorry if I frightened you. It wasn't my intention."

_Is this guy for real? _

_He doesn't sound 'terribly sorry.' _

_In fact, he doesn't sound terribly ANYTHING!_

_Not only is he about as stimulating as a stapler, ROBOTS are more emotional._

_If I was in charge of the CIA, I would hire this guy on _sight.

_He is the sort of person you could instantly forget about, while you were conversing with him._

For irrational reasons she couldn't quite define, his intriguing blandness irked her.

And the fact that her interest was piqued, slightly, well, irked her even more.

He continued to assault her with his disconcertingly-blank stare.

Obviously, he was waiting for some sign that she forgave the intrusion.

Crossing her arms protectively over her chest, she proceeded to glare him into submission.

"Y…you did…didn't f…frighten me," she agitatedly spluttered.

_Well played, Phoenix._

_Just because the asshole invaded your room DOES NOT mean he has the advantage!_

_It isn't too late to regain control of the situation._

"Shouldn't you be outside with your little friend, you know, getting your ass handed to you on a platter by that polar bear," she growled, false bravado firmly intact.

_THAT'S MY GIRL! _

"Not when the alternative is undeniably more appealing," he countered, listlessly.

"And what would the alternative be exactly," she ferociously gritted.

"Having my ass handed to me on a platter by you," he tediously perked.

_HOLY SHIT!_

_Is he...HITTING ON ME?_

_Of course, he's not hitting on you, MORON!_

_He probably never even had a Flirting Mechanism installed._

_And, even if he was hitting on you, it wouldn't matter._

_He's in your bed._

_He's in your BED, without an invitation._

_THAT is the issue! _

Apathetically, he appraised her, as if there were some unspoken understanding between them that supported his breach of etiquette.

What right did he have to take her bed hostage, to examine her so impassively, to fascinate her with his overwhelming blandness?

"Besides, I am not representing Budweiser. I am here on behalf of Coach Markson. He likes to welcome the new recruits by inviting them to dine with him and his family. So, consider me your invitation."

Phoenix had never felt so out of her conversational element in her entire life.

_Sure, Manhattan is constantly plaguing me with grandiose speeches about "thither" and "thou" and "wherefore art," but she only does so when referring to Shakespeare._

_What's with his pompous 'on-behalf' bullshit?_

_He couldn't possibly be more than year or two older than Dallas._

_Even her grandparents would never use the phrase 'on behalf.'_

_LOATHSOME BASTARD! _

_TALK YOUR AGE, DAMNIT!_

Of course, somewhere within the drudgery of his monologue, he had implied that free food was available.

She jutted her jaw defiantly.

"Count me in!"

He eased himself off of her bed.

He didn't convey any frustration over relinquishing his spot.

He didn't convey any pride over her acceptance of his invitation.

He shook her hand.

They exchanged names.

He didn't convey any pleasure that they been introduced.

He didn't convey any interest, whatsoever, in her Missouri-an accent.

He didn't convey any curiosity about her Distinguished Hockey Career.

"Tomorrow night. Seven o'clock," he reminded her, with absolutely no alteration in the pitch or tone of his voice.

With all the zeal of a rusty nail, he departed.

Once she was alone, she heaved a sigh of supreme irritation, which she had been gallantly repressing, throughout their ENTIRE encounter.

Lividly, she muttered to herself that staplers were **DEFINITELY** more stimulating than Caleb Bradford.

* * *

_**Coach Markson's Nowhere-Near-Humble Abode: The Ally and His Cactus**_

Coach Markson's humble abode was anything but humble.

The house itself was larger than the White House.

Phoenix had her suspicions that Coach Markson's annual income far surpassed that of the president.

_Not surprising, though, when you can't pronounce "nuclear." _

As for the lawn, it was more expansive than twenty hockey rinks.

Regardless of the sheer magnitude of his property, Coach Markson employed no servants of any kind.

A lack of servants was probably to blame for his wife's prickly disposition, and her severely-pinched, haggard, prune-like face, arms, legs, neck, etc.

Scouring the twenty stories of the Markson Mansion, as well as spending the last ten years of her life pursuing four boundlessly-energetic offspring, had reduced her to a horrendously-shriveled shell of her formerly-vivacious self.

Coach Markson delighted in inviting the members of his teams, and any friends or significant others they chose to bring along, for dinner, three times a week, if possible.

Mrs. Markson delighted in regaling EVERYONE with tales of her children's accomplishments.

She typically remained mum when the discussion deviated from her brood.

When the Drakes were first welcomed into the Markson Mansion, most graciously by their host, they patiently endured Mrs. Markson's tales of her children (which spanned a decade), before scattering in all directions to mingle with the other guests.

* * *

_**Coach Markson's Nowhere-Near-Humble Abode: Surrender Thy Carrot**_

Phoenix made a beeline for the finger foods.

Instantly, she was intercepted…by an undeniably-nondescript youth.

His khaki pants, loafers, and navy, button-down, logo-less, average-length-sleeved shirt, assured her that they had already met.

However, she couldn't recall the circumstances of their introduction.

Monotonously, he stated, "Hello, again. So, you're here."

It was as if he couldn't be bothered to feel even a SHRED of excitement that he was fortunate enough to see her again.

He couldn't even muster aSMIDGEON of astonishment that she had actually shown up, just as she promised she would.

"Yes, I am here. And, quite frankly, I'm REALLY regretting the fact that I didn't search for escape routes BEFORE heading for the food," shesniped mutinously.

"I can show you," he offered, vapidly.

Thoroughly discomfited, she yelped, "You can do what?"

"I can show you the escape routes. Coach Markson was kind enough to point them out for me the first time I was here, and it would be an honor to extend the courtesy to you."

Indifferently, he reached for her hand.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Bradford," she regally sniffed.

_Show me the escape routes?_

_Is that CIA Code for "make vapid, robotic love with you?"_

_What if he's just trying to be nice, Phoenix?_

_You promised your father that you would be cautious about judging others._

_Wait!_

_I wasn't serious about fleeing, was I?_

_Have I unknowingly committed some atrocious faux pas?_

_What if I mistook dog food for dip?_

_Phoenix, why are you getting your panties in a twist over something that was meant as small talk?_

_You don't need his escape routes, and you certainly don't need HIM!_

Without so much as a half-hearted farewell, he withdrew his hand; dully, he strode away.

He had simply abandoned her, with a forgotten carrot stick dangling unattractively from her lower lip.

* * *

_**Coach Markson's Nowhere-Near-Humble Abode: A Blow That Cannot be Cushioned**_

From her position on the awe-inspiring, floral-patterned sofa, Manhattan observed her sister's hilarious bout of anguish.

Primly, she stifled a gale of giggles behind her hand.

Without warning, the youth Phoenix had been conversing with took the seat beside her.

"You wouldn't happen to know that young lady, would you," he inquired, dispassionately.

Manhattan merely hiccoughed.

"The one with the carrot," he clarified, without even a hint of mirth in his voice.

"Oh, my sister," she stammered, dumbfounded.

Vacantly, he regarded her.

"She's, how to put this delicately, judgmental, determined to form false first impressions of everyone she meets, clearly has no idea how carrot sticks were intended to be eaten and…"

"She's breathtaking," he lethargically supplied.

Instinctively, Manhattan flinched.

_You poor bastard!_

_If you actually intend to pursue my sister, I hope you and your hand are VERY good friends._

_Phoenix treats guys' hearts about as decently as she treats their groins._

He jerked her from her reverie with a firm, but not so firm as to crush the delicate bones in her hand, yet not so weak as to be described as "pansy-like," handshake.

"Would you tell your sister that Caleb Bradford sends his apologies?"

Manhattan yammered incoherently.

"Until we meet again, Miss Drake."

With that, he was gone, leaving Manhattan Drake ashen, and prattling under her breath, in his apathetic wake.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I chose to focus on the fact that Phoenix finds Caleb boring, rather than the fact that Phoenix finds him old, since,21-year-olds marrying 35-year-olds isn't as commonof a practice these days, I'm making Caleb 24. The polar bear is a shout-out to the phenomenal Non-damsel. Read her stories; they are all time well spent. I would like to dedicate this chapter to my father. I may not always understand his decisions, but he's never let me down. 

**Non-damsel:** Still reading? Of course you are! After all, my Impotent Power can not be defeated. Now, all you have to do is accept that Johnny Ledger and Rachel Harrington are meant to be together, and my purpose in life will have been acchieved. Anyhoodle!This is one of the few chapters in which you'll see Expendible Manhattan in action. Blink, and you'll miss her!Feel free to review, since the non-existent narcissist in me craves your praise. RANNY, Kadrien, SAWNON, Shanyid, Vincent, Hurley's dudes, Kate's guns, Charlie's heroine, Jack's head, Sawyer's sex appeal!


	3. The One with the Civility and the Locker

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the NHL. If I did, I'd probably be Canadian, or knowledgeable about hockey. I do own The Imaginary University of Denver, but possibly NOT the Buccaneers. If I did own the Buccaneers, I would be congratulating myself on my irrefutable knack for creating wicked-awesome Team Names. I do not own scorpions, since they're ridiculously-difficult to train. I do not own Wal-Mart. If I did, I'd be paying the employees higher wages, because those are some decent folks. I do not own lime-green hair, Group Showers, and Girl Talk. I do not own the Big Bad Wolf. I do not own _Bambi_ (the movie, the rights, or the hooker). I do not own the Chesire Cat (from the _Alice In Wonderland_ movie or books). I do not own the cliché about pushing someone's buttons. I do not own Neanderthals. Of course, I used to be hit on by Neanderthals repeatedly, when I lived in the dorm next to one of the frat houses, last year. Note to Frat Guys: Trying to pick up a girl by telling her that you broke your foot, when you fell off a flagpole, while you were drunk is ABSOLUTELY MORONIC. You're not being cute, so you're not gonna get laid! I do not own "as you wish," which belongs to The Man in Black from _The Princess Bride_.

**Previously on _On Thin Ice_:** Phoenix was accepted into The Imaginary University of Denver, which she is hoping will result in a future of Revolutionizing the Game of Hockey. Garrett refuses to marry Dallas, but he does offer to hold her hostage in a Motel 6. The Drake Women arrive at the University-Provided Cabin, complete with animal heads, a skilift, a polar bear, and Caleb Bradford in Phoenix's bed. Oy, but those sponges move fast, don't they? During the dinner at Coach Markson's, Phoenix is unable to consume a carrot stick, and Manhattan is unable to stomach Caleb's robotic proclamation that Phoenix is 'breathtaking.'

* * *

"**_The next time you abuse your locker, try not to envision your destiny's face while doing so." –Marissa Jennings_**

* * *

****

_**Outside Coach Markson's Office: Of Mothers and Meetings**_

"MUH-THER," Phoenix shrilled imperiously.

Mrs. Drake arched an eyebrow, but refrained from commenting.

Meticulously, she busied herself straightening Phoenix's collar.

Phoenix irately wrenched herself from her mother's grasp.

Head held high, she haughtily groused, "I'm doing this ALONE! This is NOT my first day of Kindergarten, and I don't need you to hold my hand! After all, NO ONE in the NHL has a mother who insists on tagging along to meetings."

In times of stress, Mrs. Drake knew better than to contradict her daughter.

Meekly, she nodded her agreement.

Phoenix hobbled forward a few steps.

Immediately, she retreated, flinging her arms around her mother's neck.

"But, since I'm not in the NHL yet, if it wouldn't be too much trouble for you to…," she whimpered pitifully.

"I'll be right outside the door, Sweetheart."

With that assurance, Phoenix teetered precariously toward her destiny.

Mrs. Drake was left alone to mull over the uncertain fate of her middle child.

Try as she might to justify her daughter's faults, Phoenix's overconfidence was irrefutable.

Phoenix was certain that her independent streak was a million miles long, but the truth was, she would never be able to tackle the world on her own.

When Harold died, Phoenix had lost the only person with whom she was willing to let her guard down.

More than anything else, Mrs. Drake prayed that Phoenix would find someone she could trust as much as she trusted her father.

* * *

_**Inside Coach Markson's Office: But, the Script Offers Nothing to Curb Her Wrath**_

Five minutes earlier, Coach Markson had sauntered jauntily out of his office.

Heaving an indifferently-agonized sigh, Caleb Bradford contemplated the file Coach Markson had thrust at him, prior to his merry departure.

"With all due respect, Sir," he had tediously murmured, following Coach Markson's chirpy declaration that the meeting with Phoenix Drake would be placed squarely upon his shoulders, "I'm not sure that my position as the MASCOT qualifies me to discuss matters of such a sensitive nature with a perspective STAR PLAYER."

"With all due respect, Bradford, that's one hell of a pansy-ass cop-out," Coach Markson had resolutely boomed.

"Your father has been my best friend for over thirty years, and in all the time I've known him, he has never been more certain of anything than he is of your intelligence. Don't prove him wrong, Son! All I'm depending on you to do is to tell Miss Drake that she and her family are more than welcome to stay at Barton Park, free of charge, as part of her scholarship. If she wishes to move elsewhere, she can schedule an appointment with me. Also, inform Miss Drake that her position on the team will be dealt with at practice on Monday. Then, give her the schedule for the season. If you have any questions, I've written a script for you, which I put in the file with Miss Drake's name on it. After all, you've tackled Medical School. One woman shouldn't be too much to handle."

"But Coach," he had listlessly protested, "Phoenix was promised a meeting with YOU."

"Nonsense, Bradford!"

Coach Markson had waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"You and Miss Drake CLEARLY hit it off last night, and if there's one thing in this cruel world that warms this old man's heart, it's when two young people are inexplicably drawn together."

"Coach, all I did was offer to show her the escape routes," Caleb had casually retaliated.

Coach Markson had slugged him jovially on the shoulder.

"GOOD FOR YOU, SON! Escaping into the night for a clandestine rendezvous! Your father will be thrilled!"

"Well, certainly not as thrilled as Miss Drake will be when YOU agree to meet with her. And, as far as Miss Drake and I are concerned, there is no togetherness, 'inexplicable,' or otherwise," Caleb had countered, flatly.

"Bradford, a woman's heart is a delicate instrument. It just takes time and patience to properly pluck the strings. YOU will meet with Miss Drake, and you will both benefit from the experience."

"Not fucking likely," Caleb spiritlessly seethed at the offending file.

* * *

_**Inside Coach Markson's Office: To Score with a Scorpion**_

It was at that moment that Phoenix stumbled (literally) into the room.

Upon realizing that he wasn't, in fact, Coach Markson, she deafeningly thundered, "HELL NO," while staggering from the office.

Understandably, he was banally bemused by her excruciatingly-awkward retreat.

When she limped back into the inexplicably-sweltering office, Caleb's bland snickering immediately ceased.

Absentmindedly, he tugged at his collar.

He diligently averted his eyes from her form-fitting blouse and curve-hugging skirt, which steadily traveled up her thigh when she plopped, without a shred of poise, into the chair across from him.

_**Damn!**_

_Those heels make her legs look delicious! _

_No! _

_Must focus on something else! _

_Look up, Moron! _

_**BLOODY HELL!**_

_Look past the cleavage! _

_Definitely look past the mouth! _

_Just focus on the eyes, those intoxicating eyes. _

_Say something! _

_But, DON'T deviate from the script! _

_Otherwise, the first words out of your mouth will be, "I know you're intending to stay at Barton Park, so let's screw this meeting, shall we? And speaking of screwing, how would you feel about being ravished on Markson's desk...by me?"_

_Caleb Bradford, you are twenty-four-years-old._

_This is not the first woman you have come in contact with._

_Pull yourself together, Man!_

_Of course, she is the first woman you have come in contact with, who has made you feel… **THIS**!_

_Well, if you're going to make an ass of yourself, you may as well start now._

"Morning, Miss Drake."

"OH, SO YOU ARE CAPABLE OF CIVILITY," Phoenix venomously gritted.

"I beg your pardon," he stammered, detached.

_THIS ISN'T IN THE GODDAMN SCRIPT!_

She bellowed, lividly, "Last night we were having a conversation, and YOU BAILED! YOU BAILED WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A "GOODBYE!"

_Maybe it's just me, but she seems a LITTLE bent out of shape about this._

"Miss Drake, I believe you made it PERFECTLY clear that you weren't interested in my help. There was nothing more that needed to be said. Hence, I ended the discussion."

"Mr. Bradford," she snarled vehemently, "what gives you the right to decide when our discussions end?"

"Well," he nonchalantly retorted, "clearly, my presence was distressing you, so I felt that it would be best if I terminated the conversation."

"'DISTRESSING?' Your presence was 'DISTRESSING' me? Don't presume to know me, Mr. Bradford."

"How could I presume any such thing, Miss Drake? You're not willing to give me a chance to know you."

"You know what, Mr. Bradford, let's NOT make this personal," she murderously raged.

"As you wish, Miss Drake. I suppose the first order of business is…"

"What YOU are doing at MY meeting," Phoenix indignantly erupted.

Caleb valiantly struggled to remain impassive.

_Her fury simply increases her physical appeal. _

_More importantly, I have a better chance of scoring with a scorpion than I do of scoring with Phoenix Drake._

Indifferent, Caleb handed the file to Phoenix.

"Coach Markson asked me to give you this information. The speech, which you refused to listen to, should answer any questions you have about living arrangements. There is also a schedule of practices, games, and special events for the entire season. You will learn your position at Monday's practice. Enjoy the rest of the weekend, Miss Drake."

Phoenix peevishly spun on her flimsy, Wal-Mart-brand, nine-inch heel, only to discover herself tumbling backwards against Caleb Bradford.

"Miss Drake, I knew you hadn't intended to leave without saying so much as a "goodbye,"" he quipped, aloof.

Momentarily, he placed his hands upon her hips to steady her.

Her body was pressed so firmly against his, he was COMPLETELY conscious of her skirt inching upwards.

_DAMN YOU TO HELL, SCRIPT!_

He assisted her to her feet, in a manner completely immune to adjectives, and escorted her to the door.

* * *

_**Outside Coach Markson's Office: Your Shoes Betray Your Defeat**_

Once Phoenix had freed herself from the stiflingly-cramped quarters of Coach Markson's Office, she furiously yanked off her shoes.

Purposefully, she charged toward her mother, loathsome file clenched between her teeth.

"Not the most productive meeting in the history of hockey was it," Mrs. Drake dryly remarked.

Gathering Phoenix's shoes, she ushered her vengefully-mumbling daughter to the car.

_**Inside Coach Markson's Office: Of Blisters and Bitches**_

* * *

****

Within the bowels of Coach Markson's Office, Caleb Bradford paced frantically, to and fro, to and fro.

And yet, he accomplished nothing, but wearing a hole in the already-battered carpet.

Incidentally, he developed some fairly severe blisters, which certainly would do nothing to improve the Mascot Routine he was supposed to have perfected by Monday's practice.

_What is it about Phoenix Drake that has my innards all tied up in knots?_

_For the first time, probably in his life, Coach Markson couldn't be more wrong._

_Phoenix Drake has strings that I will NEVER come close to plucking!_

Her defiance had captured his interest the instant he met her.

She pushed his typically-indifferent buttons in ways that no one else had in many years.

She made him **FEEL** for the first time since Skylar's death.

* * *

_**Buccaneerettes' Locker Room: Of Requisite Lesbian Banter and Strength**_

Phoenix stormed into the Buccaneerettes' Locker Room, wayward clumps of hair tumbling into her eyes.

She was as red as a beet, sweating profusely, and huffing and puffing more fervently than the Big Bad Wolf.

Furiously, she slammed her locker shut.

A disembodied, feminine voice, from a few lockers down, comfortingly commented, "Take it from me, Honey, I don't care how impressive his equipment is, he ain't worth it! You're about to benefit from the wisdom of a gal who has been down that road. Don't destroy your locker! Boys come and boys go, but a decent locker, well...that WILL last you an entire career."

Phoenix's feet, completely of their own accord, led her to the source of the voice: a gangly, honey-haired, freckled mass of arms and legs, with striking sapphire eyes and a rebellious smirk.

Hefting her duffle bag into her locker, she eased it shut (Phoenix was positively delighted to note that the door hung limply from its rusted hinges, at a decidedly-bizarre angle), extending her frail hand toward Phoenix.

"Marissa Jennings. You look awfully bushed for someone who hasn't even endured her first Buccaneers' Practice! Are you absolutely positive that there wasn't some Group Shower I missed?"

Phoenix could only gawk in awe at the freckled bundle of innuendo.

"Of course," Marissa provocatively purred, "the next time I miss a Group Shower, you and I can always hook up later. Perhaps we'll even drop the soap."

Phoenix's jaw plummeted to the floor.

"And by 'hook up,' I mean I'll give you the indescribable pleasure of treating me to coffee…"

"Phoenix," she supplied, AWKWARDLY.

Marissa amiably squeezed her shoulder, sassing, "Now that the requisite Lesbian Banter is behind us, let's get real, Girl. That partay at Coach Markson's on Friday night? I can't believe you don't even remember me!"

Phoenix furrowed her brow.

_What apocalyptic event happened on Friday night? _

_Caleb Bradford had single-handedly screwed over my unconditional love of carrot sticks!_

_Caleb Bradford had been an unforgivable dick!_

_I didn't allow myself to over-react to Caleb Bradford's prickish ways…IN THE SLIGHTEST!_

_Then, I was BLESSED by Caleb Bradford's abrupt disappearance._

_And, the local authorities crashed the party, because one of the neighbors had complained about a topless girl attempting to ride a deer through her front lawn!_

"That's right! Everyone was calling you 'Bambi.'"

Phoenix lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Did you get arrested?"

Marissa simply leered at Phoenix, a la the Cheshire Cat.

"Hasn't happened yet! The Sheriff just sent me to my room for the rest of the weekend. And, I know what you're thinking. Why does my law-abiding, not to mention law-enforcing, Old Man, tolerate my public…ahem…exhibitions? Well, I've got Juvenile Diabetes, and he's not certain how long I'll be physically capable of sowing my wild oats, so he's willing to let anything but murder, drugs, and theft slide."

Marissa slumped wearily upon the bench.

All the color drained from her face, as she exhaustedly tugged at the laces on her skates.

Phoenix knelt at her feet to complete the task.

"Although," Marissa mused, saucily arching an eyebrow, "I suppose I can understand why my partial nudity wouldn't make the list of your Fondest Markson Party Memories, considering who you and that carrot stick of yours were chatting up."

Idiotically, Phoenix gaped.

"Don't bother denying it," Marissa dramatically proclaimed.

"My lime-green-haired, thirteen-year-old, admitted-to-being-related-to-you source has already divulged EVERYTHING about your encounter with Caleb Bradford!"

_Well, this is certainly the MOST befuddled I've ever been…in the middle of a locker room._

"And, judging by the ferocity of that locker abuse I just witnessed, I can't help but feel compelled to share said lime-green-haired, thirteen-year-old, admitted-to-being-related-to-you source's brilliance."

_Knowing Manhattan, this 'brilliance' is DEFINITELY going to include "thither" and "thou," and possibly a "wherefore art." _

"My source philosophized that the first guy you meet is the first guy you snub, but he's the one you're meant to be with. And, I'm inclined to believe her, since she's read A FEW romance novels in her lifetime."

Phoenix dismissed Manhattan's juvenile theory with a concerned, "Why hockey? Shouldn't you be spending your energy…"

"Shouldn't I be spending my energy on things that won't increase my chances of dying young? Why not enjoy the time I have?Doing something that allows me to temporarily forget that I'm not as strong as everyone else is theBEST way of spending my energy!"

Coach Markson's whistle tooted faintly in the distance.

Phoenix helped Marissa to her feet.

"You've got it backwards, Marissa. You're much stronger than EVERYONE else."

* * *

_**Cove Stadium: Neanderthals and the Joys of Being Rendered Immobile**_

They entered the rink, arm-in-arm, amongst the Neanderthal-esque hooting of their teammates.

Phoenix beamed.

_I can handle the catcalls._

_The foreign concept of Heartfelt Girl Talk and Purging of Innermost Secrets, on the other hand, is another story ENTIRELY!_

_And, what right does Manhattan have to spout utter BULLSHIT about me and…**HIM** to a complete stranger?_

_Especially when that complete stranger might have just been coming on to me! _

Coach Markson put an immediate kibosh on the testosterone frenzy, with a terse, "Gentlemen, and primates, I would like to welcome all of you to what I expect will be another undefeated season of Buccaneers' Hockey. Therefore, I am proud to introduce our newest member, Center, and Assistant Captain, PHOENIX DRAKE!"

Marissa futilely endeavored to nudge her forward.

This unexpected pronouncement had rendered Phoenix immobile.

* * *

**Author's Note:** For those of you who are new to the story, the transition from Coach Markson's Office to the Girls' Locker Room is a bit murky, but everything will be cleared up by next chapter. So, we've introduced the mysterious, deceased Skylar, whose memory is haunting Caleb, and the out-spoken Marissa Jennings (based on Mrs. Markson's mother in the book), who is named after my sister's best friend Marissa (she also suffers from Juvenile Diabetes), and was accidentally based on the dog from _Lady and the Tramp_ that Lady meets in the pound, the one who's all, "most men are total dogs, but we love them anyway." Wow! Unexpected Disney Moment! Marissa, I love you, Dude. You've been a wonderful addition to my sister's life and an inspiration to me. You're ALL KINDS of AWESOME! Unfortunately, Marissa has been too ill to attend school, and her arthritis is REALLY acting up, so if you're a prayerful/thoughtful sort of person, prayers/thoughts on Marissa's behalf would be greatly appreciated.Iactually researched a bit of hockey terminology (and I'm not just talking about the "Flying V" from _Mighty Ducks_), so, I'll explain Phoenix's position in more detail next chapter.

**Non-damsel:** At this point, I might jump Caleb'sbones, before Phoenixrealizes what she wants. I was never a huge fan of this chapter, because it's pure, lesbian-tinted filler. Hopefully, any worthwhile scene was adequately fleshed out. I'm looking forward to yourreview. Don't forget, I have twoReview-a-Thons I can use for leverage. SHANYID COMMUNICATION! RANNY! MY BELOVED JESS!


	4. The One with the Hanson and the Kermit

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hanson, or any of the rights to any of the songs that I have bastardized herein, or any of their affiliates, or any of their terrifying, Teeny-Bopping FanGirls. I do not own Pop Tarts. I do not own Motel 6, or their website. I do not own any hockey-or-university-related gobbledygook. I do not own Pep Boys. I do not own McDonald's. I do not own Pizza Hut. I do not own silly string. I do not own Deer Crossings. I do not own Nirvana (the state of being, or the band). I do not own the art of meditation. I do not own the CIA. I do not own the website I used to look up information on the anatomy of frogs. Schroder Hall is an imaginary building. I do not own any kind of pickup. I do not even own any Hot Wheels. I do not own Kermit the Frog. I do not own Miss Piggy. I apologize sincerely for any of the hockey terms I may have gotten wrong, because the statistics site, as I have lamented before, is ambiguous. I do not own Superman. I do not own Lacey Stark's Bimbo-ocity (THAT belongs to the ever-insightful Shockolade). I do not own Cheerleader Barbie, any other Barbie, Barbie's accessories, or Ken, his friends, and their accessories. I do not own the scene from _E.T._ that inspired the latter part of this chapter. I do not own Lacey Stark's Cheerleading status (Head Cheerleader, to be exact), which is based on a scene from _Bring It On_. Jesse Bradford answers the door, and Kristin Dunst is standing there in her cheerleading uniform. His eyes light up, and he's all, "You're. A. CHEERLEADER!" She straps on her peppy-yet-persnickety with an adorable, "HEAD CHEERLEADER, to be exact!"

**Previously on _On Thin Ice_:** Caleb is coerced into conducting what was supposed to be Phoenix's meeting with Coach Markson. Phoenix accuses Caleb of being a Deluded Tom Cruise (is there any other kind these days? Just ask Oprah's couch!), and Caleb desires to christen Coach Markson's desk with Phoenix. Mrs. Drake realizes that Phoenix needs someone special in her life. Caleb mentions Skylar. Phoenix is intimidated by the possibility that Marissa Jennings is a lesbian. Phoenix is impressed by Marissa's strength in the face of her disease. Phoenix learns how she will be expected to contribute to the Buccaneers Varsity Hockey Team.

* * *

"**_In our pursuit of freedom, there are some sacrifices that must be made. Occasionally, these sacrifices involve windows." -Lacey Stark_**

* * *

****

_**Monday Morning: The Ominous MmmBop!**_

"MmmBop! Doobeedoo! Lyrics! Doobop! Words! Words! MmmBop! More words," Manhattan obliviously bellowed, at the top of her lungs, horrendously-off-key, mid-shower.

Phoenix reflexively cowered beneath her blankets.

Manhattan's bloodcurdling serenades had served as her alarm clock for the past decade.

Despite the agony inflicted upon her eardrums, she generally appreciated her sister's prompt yodeling (begin at 6:30; end whenever Phoenix threatened to beat the shit of her).

_On the other hand, Hanson NEVER fails to herald an apocalypse._

Any Hanson tribute, particularly one that sounded as if it was being performed by an army of cats…in heat…whirling about in a blender, at top speed, was an unwelcome wake-up call, particularly on the MOST CRUCIAL Monday morning of Phoenix's career at The Imaginary University of Denver.

* * *

_**Bathroom: The Musically-Inclined Ambush**_

Resolute, Phoenix tumbled out of bed.

She barreled into the bathroom, advancing menacingly upon the shower curtain.

Left hand shielding her eyes, she turned the faucet to the hottest possible setting, with a single flourish of her right hand.

Once Manhattan's anguished howls had dissipated, and she was perched primly on the edge of the tub, towel wrapped securely around her, Phoenix innocently purred, "Honestly, Manny, I had your best interests at heart. Hanson will make you a Social Leper! I've just ensured that puberty will be an absolute breeze for you, so, you should actually be thanking me."

Manhattan coyly batted her eyelashes, cooing, "Well, Phe, you shouldn't have wasted your concern. All I expect from you is a little respect for my taste in music, but, since you can't seem to manage that, I just screwed you over royally. Check the clock, Babe! I woke you up thirty minutes late."

Phoenix bolted for the nearest available clock at the mention of 'screwed you over.'

Hence, Manhattan's catty parting shot of, "Put THAT in your 'Hanson Blows' pipe and smoke it," fell upon deaf ears.

_Of all the mornings to exact vengeance for a bit of good-natured, sisterly Hanson bashing! _

* * *

_**Dismal Domain of Dallas: The Angst and the Amenities**_

Phoenix cascaded to the floor of Dallas's room, surrounded by her backpack, gym bag, purse, and the cherry Pop Tart crumbles she had managed to snag en route.

Imperiously, she shrilled at Dallas to divulge the correct time.

"Manhattan woke you up thirty minutes late," Dallas grunted morosely.

Ruefully, she turned her attention back to Motel 6's Official Website, no doubt for the billionth time that very morning.

"Damnit, Dal! Not again! Which location are you researching this time," Phoenix irately snarled.

She struggled clumsily to her feet.

Sullen, Dallas retorted, "It's not about location anymore. I have FINALLY progressed to amenities! Did you know that free cups of coffee are provided EVERY morning for EACH guest who wants one?"

_How much longer can she survive like this?_

_She doesn't eat._

_She doesn't sleep._

_She doesn't shower._

_She's like some fucking refugee from a concentration camp._

_FUCK YOU, GARRETT FRANKFORD!_

_DAMN YOU, DALLAS!_

_No atrocious-tie-sporting tomato is worth THIS!_

_I just…I just want my sister back. _

"No, Dal, I didn't. But, I won't know much of anything if I don't make it to AT LEAST ONE class today. Manhattan's already ruined my chances of being at my eight o'clock!"

"Then, you'd better go. It's very important to know things, like knowing why the man who claims to love you believes you're only worth a Motel 6! Why a Motel 6? Why not a Holiday Inn? I at least deserve a Holiday Inn, don't I?"

"Dal, you know you deserve the best of everything."

"My knowing that isn't good enough, Phoenix. I need for Garrett to know that."

"Dal, I'm sure he knows. And, I hate to do this to you, but I HAVE to run."

As if her ass had been set on fire, Phoenix tore out of the house, galumphed into the should-have-been-elevated-on-cinder-blocks-in-the-front-yard-because-duct-tape-and-a-prayer-was-esentially-all-that-was-holding-it-together pickup, and rumbled out of the driveway.

* * *

_**Deserted Road of Doom: I May Break Down, But I am NOT Broken Down**_

It was not without an all-consuming sense of foreboding that Phoenix acknowledged the **RATTLE!** **KABLAMMO! BOOM! PLONK! THUD!** (resulting in a decidedly-violent shuddering) of her vehicle.

The blood-chilling cacophony had begun, of course, the instant she cautiously guided her beloved Bucket of Bolts around a treacherous curve, and onto an indubitably-slasher-flick-worthy, dirt road.

There were absolutely no houses in sight.

The last gas station she had passed was about twenty miles behind her.

The last McDonald's she had seen was about two whatever-the-hell-passed-for-counties ago.

Considering that she lived a mere fifteen minutes away from campus, the nagging voice in the back of her mind insistently thundered, "I told you to turn around at the seventeenth Deer Crossing!"

She was alone.

She was completely and utterly alone.

She was even more vulnerable than she had been immediately after her father's death.

There was no Dallas to hold her hand.

There was no Manhattan to weave romantic assurances that Harold Drake was smiling down upon her, protecting her.

There was no mother to dry her tears and encourage her to press on.

There was only Phoenix.

There was only Phoenix and a broken-down pickup.

There were also the intimidating mountains towering overhead.

And, there was the blinding flashing of the headlights from an oncoming vehicle.

_PERFECT! _

_Leave it to me to break down in the middle of a single-lane road._

* * *

_**Deserted Road of Marginally-Alleviated Doom: Facing the Truth**_

She gesticulated wildly, in an effort to alert her fellow motorist to the fact that she was currently unable to move.

_Please, PLEASE, don't be a gang member!_

_I can just imagine the kinds of torture gang members from Colorado with inflict upon their victims...with skis!_

Rather than maneuvering around her, the other driver parked.

He exited his vehicle and rapped on the window, to attract her attention.

She'd become distracted from her gang-related pontifications by the ominously-overcast sky, and desolate landscape, quasi-visible through her fractured windshield.

Exuberantly, she rolled down the window, nearly fainting at the indescribably-heavenly sight of a male face.

Then, her she recognized exactly to whom the face belonged.

* * *

_**Deserted Road of Definite Doom: What Tools Could Possibly Repair Us**_

"Miss Drake," Caleb Bradford greeted, lethargically.

It was all Phoenix could do not to bash her forehead repeatedly against the steering wheel.

How she longed for the sweet release of a comatose state.

_When I fell against him in Coach Markson's office, did he manage to place a tracking device on me?_

_HOW IS IT POSSIBLE THAT EVERY DAMN TIME I LEAST WANT TO SEE HIM, THERE HE IS?_

"Are you going to help me, Mr. Bradford, or should I start walking," she haughtily spat.

_You may have made me seem like an idiot at the meeting, PRICKISH BASTARD OF EPIC PROPORTIONS, but you will NEVER be given that satisfaction again!_

_From now on, it is I who shall make YOUR head spin!_

"I am honored that you consider me capable of rendering aid, Miss Drake. Alas! I fear that this will not become one of those situations where the lady is stranded, and the gentleman manages to miraculously produce a toolkit from thin air. However, as those situations typically result in the lady developing some form of attraction to the man, you are probably relieved that I am sans toolkit."

There was no sarcasm-laden tone.

There was no devilish glint in his eye.

There was no smug smirk.

It was as if his what-should-have-been-endearing spiel had been memorized.

"Was that your definition of a joke, Mr. Bradford?"

Phoenix couldn't restrain the ghost of smile that momentarily flitted across her otherwise-grim countenance.

"I NEVER joke, Miss Drake."

She valiantly restrained a sigh of disappointment.

_Of course, you never joke._

_Of course, you never do ANYTHING that would make the smidgeon of respect I felt for you in that instant justifiable._

* * *

_**Deserted Road of Doom and Deception: Issues with Tissues **_

"My inability to joke aside, I do happen to have the number of a very reliable towing company; and, if you're interested, I can work a little magic for you, get you a discount perhaps?"

She truly studied him then, from the immaculately-brushed hair to the indistinctive markings on his revoltingly-generic shoes.

Caleb Bradford had all the sexual appeal of an ameba.

He had all the sparkling wit of silly string.

But, he WAS genuinely concerned for her well-being.

And, oh, how she abhorred him for it.

"I'd appreciate that. Th…th…thank you."

Thoroughly humiliated, she averted her eyes.

This provided Caleb with the ideal opportunity to pump his fist in the air, before executing nonchalant Victory Dance.

"I can wait here…with you…if…if you like."

Phoenix agitatedly worried her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Th…that won't be necessary. Thank you though," she pitifully stammered.

Caleb scribbled the towing company's number on a stray Kleenex she had unearthed from beneath the driver's seat.

_At least he had the civility not to inquire about the sordid history of my Kleenex._

_Phoenix, you know that isn't the ONLY civility he has displayed!_

_No one forced him to offer to wait with you, after all. _

_He was being polite, completely of his own accord. _

_The question is…WHY? _

_This thing between us, this ANIMOSITY, is entirely **HIS** fault! _

_He shows up in my bed, completely-out-of-the-blue! _

_He hits on me, possibly, without my approval! _

_He refuses to let me have the last word during our arguments! _

_He attempts to grope me at the meeting! _

_And now, in my hour of need, he doesn't even have a toolkit! _

_Then he has the audacity to have a towing company's number, when I need it most! _

_What are you doing to me, Caleb Bradford? _

"Miss Drake," he mechanically began, as she awkwardly accepted the Kleenex, "in case you change your mind about…the discount, feel free to contact me, anytime."

Without ANY further ado, he took her hand.

Spiritlessly, he wrote his home, cell, office, and fax number on her palm, in the most mundane handwriting she had ever seen.

With all the get-up-and-go of melted ice cream, he returned to his car, and, as was his custom, was simply gone.

* * *

**Deserted Road of Decisiveness: So, You've MmmBop-ed Your Way into My Mind **

_**Damn it all!**_

_Even his method of driving is lackluster. _

The sheer tedium of Caleb Bradford was beyond Phoenix Drake's comprehension.

And, she was a fairly one-note individual.

_What does my whole life revolve around? _

_Hockey. _

_How do I bond with others? _

_Hockey. _

_What is my sole ambition? _

_Hockey._

Caleb Bradford, as far as Phoenix could tell, wasn't even one-note.

_The man is NOTE-LESS! _

_In fact, he is so nondescript, he is the most fascinating sponge I have ever had the excruciating displeasure of meeting. _

It was official.

She was NEVER beginning her morning with Hanson again.

* * *

_**Deserted Road of the Deceived and the Dismal: What Stains Your Soul**_

Hoisting herself into the driver's seat, she rifled through her multiple bags, only to discover that her cell phone had been in her pocket the ENTIRE time.

Furiously, she dialed the number Caleb had so graciously provided for her.

Fifteen rings later, she admitted defeat.

Murderously, she leapt out of pickup.

Enraged, she waded into a conveniently-located pond of mud…and struggled to meditate.

The problem was, rather than leading her to Nirvana, her thoughts wandered to a note-less, nondescript, potential CIA employee.

Glaring, through her unshed-tear-blurred vision, at her mud-splattered, still-miraculously-functioning cell phone, Phoenix was appalled by the epiphany that she had missed her second class.

She had only an hour until her third.

And, since she had neglected to charge the battery the night before, there was only enough power remaining in her cell phone to make a final call.

* * *

_**The Vehicle of Victory: Your Heart Calls to My Pizza Hut**_

Caleb Bradford was euphoric.

He was slightly dastardly.

But mostly, he was euphoric.

Phoenix Drake had accepted his telephone numbers.

**PLURAL!**

Of course, she had done so under duress; but she COULD have yanked her hand out of his, spat in his eye, and delivered a debilitating kick to his balls, so there was still hope.

Incidentally, he had committed the PERFECT crime.

The number of the 'reliable towing company' was, in fact, the number of a VERY-out-of-business Pizza Hut, where he had slaved away during his Undergraduate Years.

Once she called the 'towing company's' number, and received no reply, she would eventually be forced to call him for help.

Perhaps, with time, he would manage to pluck her heartstrings.

His cell phone chirped incessantly, informing him of the highly-anticipated call of Phoenix Drake.

* * *

_**The Truck of Triumph: The Angelic Chorus of Manipulation**_

"Mr. Bradford," she ferociously growled.

Even when distorted by static, her voice was as mellifluous as an angelic chorus.

"Get your two-faced ass back to where you left me! The reliability of your towing company is BULLSHIT! Erm…that is all."

Guffawing uncontrollably, Caleb Bradford eased his car out of the parking space (directly in front of Pep Boys), where he had decided to relax, after abandoning Phoenix to her own futile devices.

Blissfully, he closed the three-minute gap between himself and the sure-to-be distraught Phoenix Drake.

* * *

_**The Automobile of AWKWARD: Muddy Expectations**_

He had mentally prepared himself for fuming, gnashing of teeth, rending of garments, yanking out of hair, scathing remarks, or, at the very least, use of the foulest language known to man.

Thus, he was beyond flabbergasted by the hysterically-bawling, mud-encrusted, scabby-kneed woman, who exhaustedly flung herself into the passenger seat.

With every fiber of his being, he yearned to pluck the stray leaves from her hair.

He yearned to wipe the tears from her eyes.

He yearned to have his dastardly way with her.

Nevertheless, he WOULDN'T risk decimating the delicate peace they had achieved.

"May I treat you to lunch, Miss Drake," he dully offered.

Absentmindedly, she blew her nose on his sleeve.

"Alright."

_Alright? _

_WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT, PHOENIX?_

_The CORRECT answer is THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE OF 'ALRIGHT!' _

_The CORRECT answer is THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE OF 'ALRIGHT,' WITH A FEW EXPLETIVES THROWN IN!_

_And, why the hell is he stopping the car? _

Unfortunately, Caleb had miraculously transported them from the highway to a field, which was ablaze with an abundance of wildflowers.

Rapturously, she surveyed the majesty of their decidedly-secluded surroundings.

Caleb allowed himself .1395 seconds to bask in the glow of her pleasure, prior to stagnantly grimacing.

"Alright," he banally queried.

_Oh, Caleb! _

_How can you POSSIBLY be concentrating on my grievous Freudian slip? _

_We are surrounded by the GLORY of nature! _

_Say SOMETHING, Drake! _

_No good can come from the look he's giving you right now. _

_Remind him of everything he will NEVER be to you._

"Lunch would be…NO," she authoritatively thundered.

"'Lunch would be no,'" he dismally deadpanned.

"Mr. Bradford, I appreciate everything you have done for me, but for us to spend any more time together than is absolutely necessary…It would just be…," beyond flustered, she trailed off.

"Awkward? Uncomfortable? Pleasant," he slothfully supplied.

"YES! I mean…NO! It's just…You and I, well, you and I…We are NEVER going to be together!"

Perturbed, she focused on her hand, which had somehow migrated from her lap to a resting place that was mere millimeters from Caleb's knee.

_How did I fail to notice what my hand is doing? _

_You'd think that touching him was a natural occurrence for me._

Silent, Caleb observed her discomfort.

Stoically, he placed both of his hands on the staring wheel, as far from her reach as possible.

"That's rather narrow-minded, don't you think," he inquired, with all the fanfare of a compost heap.

"Throwing insults around is hardly the ideal technique for winning me over, Mr. Bradford!"

"Who said I wanted to win you over, Miss Drake? It was an invitation to lunch, not a marriage proposal."

_DAMN YOU, CALEB BRADFORD! _

_Why couldn't my pickup have broken down on a road frequented by gang members?_

"THIS IS EXACTLY WHY I ABHOR YOU!"

He assaulted her with a vacantly-plaintive glower.

"Oh, I see."

_Well, THANK GOD one of us does! _

_One minute, I'm pseudo-holding-your-hand, and the next, I'm wishing I was spending quality time with Ferris, instead of being TRAPPED here with you. _

_I'd give ANYTHING to know WHAT THE HELL I feel!_

"Actually, I don't think you do! If you HONESTLY saw, you wouldn't keep dragging me into these arguments," she snarled.

"ME? Dragging YOU," he listlessly snorted.

"HELLO? Have you been participating in the same confrontations that I have? YES! YOU dragging ME," she bellowed.

"It would be IMPOSSIBLE for me to drag you anywhere, figuratively speaking, because, like I've already told you, you won't give me an opportunity," he robotically spat.

"What sort of opportunities do you expect me to give you?"

"The next time I offer to show you the escape routes, you could accept."

Meekly, Phoenix unfastened her seatbelt, gradually inched toward Caleb, and laid her head upon his averagely-muscular chest.

"Okay."

"Okay, as in…I've won the argument," he furrowed his brow, blandly-skeptical.

"NO! Okay, as in I'll go to lunch with you, as long as you don't look at me, touch me, talk to me, fantasize about me, eat my food, breathe my air, or sit at my table," she majestically proclaimed.

"Then, kissing you IS permitted," he noted, with all the zest of putrid applesauce.

"EXCUSE ME," she barked, incensed.

"I can kiss you, since "don't kiss me" was not on your list of demands," he declared, flatly.

"If you meet my expectations, we shall see," she regally decreed.

"There will be no kissing, Miss Drake," he grunted, positively-blasé.

"And, what makes you think THAT decision is yours," she haughtily sniped.

"You have your list of demands, and I have mine. If you and I will NEVER be together, I have no interest in kissing you."

Rather than offer her an opportunity to debate the issue further, Caleb removed her from his person, nudging her toward the opposite side of the vehicle.

The remainder of the trip to campus was spent in bitter contemplation.

* * *

_**Outside of Schroder Hall: The Frigid Non-Date **_

Caleb parked in front of Schroder Hall of Science and Engineering, where her Biology Lab was located.

She sagged dejectedly against the seat.

_I may as well wait for him to the open the door for me._

_It's the least he can do after treating me like absolute shit! _

_I CAN'T BELIEVE I DIDN'T EVEN GET LUNCH!_

_WHAT THE FUCK QUALIFIES HIM TO DECIDE WHEN…IF...WE KISS? _

_GAH! _

_He does ONE MINISCULE FAVOR for me, and, suddenly, he thinks he can take any liberty he wants in our relationship. _

_NOT THAT IT'S AN ACTUAL RELATIONSHIP, OF COURSE! _

_We're just two people, who are relating to one another, in a purely-ARCHNEMESIS fashion. _

Phoenix allowed him to put her hand in his, as he placed her, and her multiple belongings, on the ground.

Before she could flee, he halted her with a robotic, "Don't worry about the truck, Miss Drake. I know a Pep Boys that will be thrilled to have a little business. If you let me handle everything, I should have it back to you by this weekend. After all, it is only proper that I make amends for the fact that we will never kiss."

In a blind rage, she charged to her final, and only, class of the day.

* * *

_**Room 423: To Bamboozle**_

Phoenix scampered into Room 423, with less than a minute to spare.

Unceremoniously, she stowed her belongings beneath what she hoped was a desk that hadn't already been claimed by someone else.

Regaining her composure, she appraised her surroundings.

Pristine, tile floors, harsh, fluorescent lighting, lab coats on a hook in the corner, goggles in a box on the floor, six lab stations in the back of the room, complete with: sinks, beakers and Bunsen burners, and the all-important sprinkler system (for when some idiot (hopefully not herself this time) decided to mix acids and bases).

She was jolted from her musings by an insistent tapping upon her right shoulder.

Withering scowl firmly in place, she swiveled to confront…the most GORGEOUS male specimen she had ever beheld.

His skin was bronzed to perfection.

His lips were succulent.

His mysterious, gray eyes had that smoldering, bore-into-your-soul quality, which never failed to force her stomach to tap dance.

His hair was a mass of auburn curls.

He had an endearing smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

His shoulders were tantalizingly broad.

From what she could tell, courtesy of the clinginess of the lab coat (not that she wouldn't cling to him as well, if given the chance) he had already donned, the man was built…EVERYWHERE.

"So, what do you reckon this Yawn Fest of a class is gonna be like?"

He melted her heart with a conspiratorial wink.

"I've heard it's a blow-off, but that was from a Senior, and he could have just been trying to make The New Kid shit her pants. I'm Phoenix Drake, by the way," Phoenix gleefully faux-whispered.

He rewarded her response with a debonair grin.

Theatrically, he rose to his feet, ambled to the front of the room, and, inexplicably assuming an air of professionalism, proceeded to scrawl "Mason Willows" across the dry-erase board.

* * *

_**Room 423: To Reevaluate**_

Melodramatically, Phoenix gulped.

She futilely endeavored to become invisible, by sinking into her seat.

_I JUST SAID 'SHIT HER PANTS' IN FRONT OF MY GORGEOUS STUDENT TEACHER!_

_God, if you're listening, there's a thing called a "lightning bolt."_

_Feel free to smite me with one, at your earliest convenience._

_In case you're wondering, my earliest convenience is NOW!_

"Ladies and Germs, and, yes, that is some Biology Humor for you, my name is Mason Willows. I am the Student Teacher, and I will be conducting these labs, which means: INFERIOR equals YOU, SUPERIOR equals ME. Are we clear?"

Grumbles of assent from the males, and enraptured swooning from the females, seemed to be enough inspiration for him to forge ahead.

"Miss…Drake?"

Phoenix instantly snapped to attention.

"I have heard it said, on at least ONE occasion, that this is considered a blow-off class. Therefore, in preparation for our lab, I was hoping you wouldn't mind telling me exactly where a frog's oviduct is located."

"I don't know, Sir," Phoenix admitted, cheeks aflame.

_WHAT COULD I HAVE POSSIBLY DONE IN A PAST LIFE TO DESERVE TO BE HIS ROYAL HOTTNESS'S SCAPEGOAT?_

_And nothing that has happened with Caleb counts!_

_He's the one who took kissing out of the equation._

_Where's his punishment?_

"Fantastic, Miss Drake," he crowed triumphantly.

"And do you know why that is, Class? Of course you don't! Just like Miss Drake does not know the location of a frog's oviduct. It is fantastic that she doesn't know, as not knowing allows you to reevaluate your preconceived notions. We will spend a great deal of time reevaluating this semester! Miss Drake, thank you for your cooperation."

Phoenix, amidst indescribable distress, nodded obediently.

"Well, I hope you haven't been forced to repress too many memories of High School Biology, since your first assignment is to dissect a frog. Hopefully, you will all leave this lab KNOWING where the oviducts are."

* * *

_**Room 423: To Introduce**_

Grudgingly, Phoenix trudged to her assigned station (Station Six).

She was effusively greeted by the perpetually-beaming, prattles-faster-than-Superman-flies, Lacey Stark.

"Like totally like Oh My God like can you totally like Oh My God BELIEVE like we're totally being like Oh My God forced into like Oh My God a like bloodbath totally like Oh MY God like on our totally Oh My God like FIRST like day totally like Oh My God?"

Lacey Stark was one of those girls with a virtually-non-existent waist.

Her boobs were enormous.

Her ass, which was currently clad in a decidedly-form-fitting cheerleading uniform, was flawless.

Lacey's voluminous, shimmering, cinnamon tresses guaranteed that she would be spending the rest of her life starring in shampoo commercials.

Lacey's emerald eyes were certain to be the envy of everyone she met.

_WAY TO SCAR ME FOR LIFE, WILLOWS!_

_Forcing me to pair up with Cheerleader Barbie was an ingenious move on your part._

_Is this like some experiment within an experiment for you?_

_BIOLOGY FUCKING BLOWS!_

Lacey's million-watt smile, and captivating dimples, ALMOST made Phoenix forget her Cheerleading status: HEAD CHEERLEADER, to be exact.

Almost, that is, until Lacey decided that this was an ideal opportunity to reenact **THAT** scene from _E.T._

* * *

_**Room 423: To Redecorate**_

An undeniably-heart-rending crusade commenced.

Lacey fell to her knees before Phoenix.

She wrapped her arms around Phoenix's waist.

She stared heartbreakingly into Phoenix's eyes.

Dogmatically, she speechified, "We must like totally like Oh My God like release him! We must like totally like Oh My God release them all! Why were like frogs totally created if their sole like totally purpose is Oh My God being sacrificed at the like Alter of totally Higher like Learning? Think of like Kermit the Oh My God Frog! Does HE totally deserve this? He's brought Oh My God laughter into like the lives of Oh My God children and totally adults alike!"

Phoenix did think of Kermit the Frog.

_What I wouldn't give to go Miss-Piggy-Ninja on your perfectly-shaped ass right now!_

Phoenix defiantly disentangled herself from the frantic Lacey.

Firmly, she reminded Lacey that their frog did have a higher purpose.

"Lacey, all you have to do is pin the arms and legs to this Paper Plate of Nirvana, and I promise that we'll figure out what that higher purpose is, after we dissect the slimy bastard."

Lacey possessively cradled the frog, caterwauling, "Oh My like totally God totally like be Oh My God totally free," as she flailed it haphazardly about.

And then…

**KERTHWACK!**

Lacey launched the frog against the window.

The ensuing explosion of frog innards resulted in a horrified silence blanketing the room.

* * *

_**Room 423: To Hop (Adeptly)**_

Mason Willows stormed over to their station.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE VALUABLE UNIVERSITY FUNDING WAS FRITTERED AWAY ON SOME IMBECILES, WHO HAVE ONLY TAKEN THIS CLASS TO EXPLODE THE LAB SPECIMENS!"

"We're not here to explode ANYTHING, Sir! We just had an ethical discrepancy with this lab. So, Lacey and I decided to leave, but our frog escaped. And, well, he was a very adept hopper, Sir."

"A VERY ADEPT HOPPER, MISS DRAKE," Mason Willows roared.

Several veins on his neck throbbed insanely.

_DAMN!_

_THAT'S HELLA ALLURING! _

"Just…NEVER MIND! I CAN'T DEAL WITH THIS SHIT FROM YOU! DETENTION! BOTH OF YOU!"

"DETENTION? We are NOT in elementary school, Sir! That's ludicrous! It was just a frog that…"

Mason Willows rolled his eyes in supreme frustration.

"The frog's adeptness at hopping has already been established, Miss Drake. Four o'clock. Tomorrow afternoon. My office is in 422. I'll meet you there."

Mason Willows returned to the front of the room.

Tersely, he dismissed them, muttering incomprehensively under his breath about 'Adept Hoppers.'

Like a whirlwind, Phoenix gathered her stuff.

Yearning for nothing more than to hurl Lacey against the window, she gritted an acidic "good afternoon" at her thoroughly-chagrinned, yet ever-peppy, lab partner.

She barreled, like a freight train, toward the Buccaneerettes' Locker Room, where she would suit up for her first practice as a Buccaneer.

* * *

_**Monday Afternoon: A Hanson-Induced Apocalypse is Avoided**_

"Therefore, I am proud to introduce our newest member, Center, and Assistant Captain, PHOENIX DRAKE!"

Coach Markson's proclamation reverberated deafeningly in her ears.

_It simply doesn't add up._

_In the beginning, there was Hanson._

_Then, I miss my first class._

_Then, I get lost._

_Then, my pickup goes to shit on me._

_Then, I miss my second class._

_Then, Caleb Bradford proves, yet again, what a repulsive ASSHAT he is._

_Then, I want to screw my Student Teacher, until my lungs burst!_

_Then, I get stuck with the most insipid lab partner EVER._

_Then, I'm awarded TWO primary positions on THE BUCCANEERS' VARSITY HOCKEY TEAM!_

_I'd give anything for Dad to see me now!_

_Maybe he does. _

She was particularly honored to be the Center.

The job entailed being able to play on both sides of the rink, instead of just the right side, where she had been since her first game.

Having been Captain of the St. Cloud State University Huskies, Assistant Captain was a demotion for her.

Nevertheless, it had been a pretty damn fine day!

Perhaps she'd be willing to give Hanson a chance, provided she survived practice.

Judging by the bloodthirsty manner in which her teammates (well, everyone except Marissa) were flexing their muscles at her, this was a doubtful prospect, indeed.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Funnily enough, I think Phoenix and Caleb made a bit of progress in this chapter, especially when she gets pissed at him for not taking her to lunch. And then, there's Mason Willows. I have a feeling that we will be seeing quite a bit of him in the near future. I know Lacey Stark's boobs aren't as exciting as Marissa's ambiguous sexuality, but Marissa will be making another appearance VERY SOON.

**Non-Damsel: **Gah! Our Favorite Victorian Lesbian just needs to blow me! Would it have been so awful for her towrite a maleprotagonist withan endearing personality? If her heros aren'tsnubbing her heroines, they are doing absolutely nothing of interest, which creates quite the hell for thoseofus interested in modernizing her stories. Take Caleb's counterpart. There was something about a piano, and him visiting Marianne when she's sick; thereby justifying Marianne's desire to marry him. THE HELL? It's amazing that her characters EVER hooked up! On the plus side: MASON WILLOWS AND LACEY STARK! Review, More or Less, Fight Fair, vote Sawyer for the 'New Sherrif' of Craphole Island! Finally, my Skate Moment: inthe Long Con, when Kate is bitching atSawyer about the fact that he wants everyone to hate him, and Sawyer goes: "Well, it'sa good thingYOU don't hate me, Freckles,"and Kate doesn't confirm, or deny, this, my Grinch-like heart gets a little mushy. Of course, it has been pointedout that Sawyer reminding Kate of her stepfather, who she...ahem..murdered, is MIGHTY squicky, but, it's not Sawyer's fault that Josh andEvangeline havechemistry! If she and Matthew Fox had even a spark, I'd hop on the Jate Train.


End file.
